The Witnesses of Perros
by sfiddy
Summary: A clause in Philippe de Chagny's will has complicated Christine and Raoul's plans, and six months later, Christine again finds herself in the gallery of the dead. She is not alone.


After six months, heart sore and lonely, Christine felt more confused than ever. Clauses built into Philippe's will had forbidden the swift wedding she and Raoul had planned, and so she was warehoused in the opera's undamaged dormitory. Petitions to the king took time, Raoul said. Repeatedly.

The feeling of somehow standing before a great precipice loomed large in her mind. Raoul did not see the crowd outside her dressing room, nor understand it. A decision had to be made soon, very soon, but there was no choice before her, no clear set of options. It was not life and death, but life and… another life. How was she to choose when there was no dire immediacy, only dull, hazy potential?

Dressed in dark colors and a light cloak, Christine slipped into the cool afternoon, just as the sun was setting the cloudy sky into a dizzying, orange-brushed dream. Like the hangings suspended from the flies far overhead, timed to the movements of characters below. Manipulated by unseen hands.

Christine shuddered.

A carriage was waiting and she called out her destination. A year ago she might have prayed, or lit a candle and sang, and waited for a more opportune time. Not nightfall. But she was confused and the void yawned wider and wider.

The skies sweetened to pink and purple, and the first street lamps were being lit. She would not stay long– she had not thought to bring a lantern, though one was hung from the carriage, and she could always find her way back if there was a light to follow.

Perros was silent. If the dead could speak, what would they say? What deeds had they witnessed in this place? What would they speak of her, of Raoul and…

She brushed tender autumn leaves from her father's marker. The grip of summer had loosened weeks ago, yielding to chilly breezes that blew without the bite of winter. The mists would rise soon, coating everything in shimmering fairy light under the lamps. It would not be long before frost decorated the headstones.

Christine loved the summer. Loved the flowers, fruits, and the way the sun warmed her skin. But it dried her throat and left her restless, straining against the tight bindings and ornaments of the beautiful dresses Raoul brought her. She could not sing in that heat, and she needed room to breathe.

Her father's monument was cleared of leaves, and Christine plucked weeds and tangles of sloppy grass from around it. "Now what, Papa? I have been patient, I have done what I should, and somehow nothing has happened. Nothing has changed."

Christine fell to her knees and traced her father's name with her fingertips, pushing rivers of dancing water down the stone. "What do I do, Papa?" Raoul loved her, she was sure, and she loved him. She loved him as wheat loved the sun. But…

Her vision blurred. If he loved her, why was he doing this? Why was she sleeping on a creaking cot in a dressing room? The sun burned the wheat fields for harvest, and left nothing but dry stalks behind. Her life was lived in strange pieces.

Her first love had been her father, then music. She had worked for it. Been well taught…

 _Christine, I love you_

And yet, here she was. Back where she began.

From the corner of her eye, she caught the swing of the lantern. It had been a long ride from the opera house, and the driver no doubt needed a walk.

She was not quite where she began, surely. She was no longer a child, no longer Lotte. The precipice was before her, the lives she might have, and the distinct points where the roads might diverge. How long, she wondered, could she wait in hallways, prettily dressed, to be called in for tea to listen to a discussion of her very life? All the while ornamenting the room like a charming tablecloth?

Christine hesitated, her mind shying away from its own dark corners. She could not think it. It was not an option. Without thinking, and very softly, for one should not disturb the dead, she began to sing.

Oh, to sing again. For herself. To raise her voice, her spirit, to the heavens and receive their blessing.

The lantern swung back into sight, and was hung again on the carriage. The driver disappeared behind the carriage. She must finish soon, for night was upon her and the mists thickening. In her mind, she could hear distant song, a breath on the wind, and nothing more.

"Papa, if you could choose, if anyone could choose, between a fate that was sure but distasteful, and a future but might lead to ruin as much as glory, what would you choose? This, the life I have now, is not freedom," Christine lamented to the stones and blowing mist.

It was cold comfort, but she may never be so free to come here again if she married Raoul. A comtesse simply did not wander graveyards at night, did they? And if she did not marry Raoul, well, her evenings would not be free either. The mob outside her dressing room was growing insistent.

Footfalls were drawing near, and Christine wiped her eyes, ready to return to the carriage which had waited quite patiently for her. She apologized softly for taking so long and pulled her feet beneath her.

"Why did you stop singing?"

Christine went stiff. _But his voice…_

A hand took her arm gently. An elegant, thin fingered hand. "Do not be alarmed. It is only me." His voice, a shy caress in the night.

"It is always you." Christine sighed and drew her arms about her tightly, then pressed them to her sides. She was no cowering child. "You drove the carriage."

"Yes." Dried grasses crunched as he took a small step. To her left, his unmasked side leaned closer, his wide brimmed hat swooping low and drawing his profile into sharp contrast. "The boy makes you cry. I wish he would not do that."

She wiped her eyes again. "A great many things make me cry. When I do is not your concern."

He was quiet, considering. "Erik would not make you cry."

"But you already have. You are too late." Though he cringed, Christine felt no obligation to soften her words, and walked slowly along the winding path, creeping by the headstones and monuments. Erik joined her, carefully measuring his tread to stay by her side.

How odd, and yet.

The silence was unbearable. "You had another mask," she stated.

"I have many. Most people do, I just keep mine in a cabinet."

Christine allowed a small smile. "I am beginning to understand what you mean."

"Is that why you are here?" he asked. "I compose when I am sad. I compose quite often."

"Yes, I know," she admitted. "I was confused and tired. It has been too long since I visited. Life has been… difficult."

Eric tilted his head, and they walked a few more steps before he paused again. "The life of a comte… it is a large life. Too large for one man to live."

Christine stopped. "Do not dare threaten–"

"I would not! It would hurt Christine. Erik does not hurt Christine. But, it is a life that demands many others to help live it, does it not? So big, others must hold it up for it to be lived fully. Servants, staff, family, a large house, the comtesse…"

"What are you saying, Erik?" Christine stepped back, but Erik made no move to crowd her.

He raised his hands, gently trembling in the thick mist. "The life of a Christine is large, too, the largest of them all. Too big for a comtesse. Too big even for a comte, which, if I have heard correctly, is quite small indeed!" Erik laughed at his joke, quickly pardoning himself. "Only a Christine can live that life. It can be the life she wishes, because," he hesitated, and lowered his voice to a soft whisper. "Because another wishes it too, Christine. They wish only for your happiness. Your delight."

The mist hugged them closely and, for a moment, Christine swore they had returned to the lake. She had only to look and she would see the little house.

"Who," she whispered. "Who wishes my happiness?"

"Why, Erik of course! The life of an Erik is such a small thing. The whole of it can be contained easily in just one Erik. But oh," he fell to one knee, the damp darkening the fabric. "Oh, how I would raise you up. I would shake heaven's foundations so they knew their boldest angel was here."

Ignoring his blasphemy, Christine looked down and considered him, his groveling form. She felt no fear, time enough had passed to dull it, but the sadness, her own despair and loneliness, a fraction of his own. She was the first to touch him with kindness, and knowing what she did now…

"How would you do that? How would you make me happy?"

Shaking and entreating, he held out one hand to reach for her, then withdrew as though she might vanish, and averted his eyes.

He raised his head. "Whatever you wished. I have homes, many little houses and apartments, all over France and Spain. They are yours. You could sing, and I would compose for you! How you would love the Liceu in Barcelona!" He shivered in ecstasy. "We would tour, you as a grand diva, I as your hidden maestro!"

Christine stood in the mist, trembling at the thought. To disappear, to walk away and start again with this creature, this dark genius. A demon angel who drew the light of the world into song and distilled it for her. A shadow of air and fire.

She touched her throat, and his eyes widened.

"Oh, my sweet Christine, though the life of an Erik is small, his heart is much, much bigger. An Erik's heart is large enough for the whole world!"

This was the moment. The void gaped, and though she may fall, a new path was set.

"You have the largest heart, Erik." Christine held out her hand and he crawled forward over the soggy grasses to clutch it, covering her hand and wrist with kisses. She pushed his wide hat away and brushed the top of his head, gently cradling the back of his neck. He froze with a quiet sob; a grateful, piercing moan as she rested her palm against his cheek.

He was a skilled magician, and she did not feel his sleight of hand, but when he took her hand from his cheek, there was a dark glimmer on her finger.

His ring. Of course. Where else would it be?

Her lips. Where else would they be but his? Christine felt his fingertips trace her cheek, then touch the kiss, tracing the side of her lips where they touched his, exploring, sending little sparkles across her skin. He cupped both of their faces in his hand, cradling the moment as if to save the kiss for later.

He need not. She would not hoard them.

Their exit from Paris was hidden, a secret kept by the mists and the dead who, in their speech of rattling leaves and cold winds, would tell a new story to those who listened.


End file.
